Price of Silence
by asomyrcal
Summary: Complete: Oneshot - He wanted to hear the music, the dissonant chords which destroyed Barcelona. And to do so, Dietrich disturbed the mage's silence. It was a mistake.


**Title: **Price of Silence  
**Fandom:** Trinity Blood  
**Pairing:** Isaak x Dietrich  
**Synopsis: **Never, ever, EVER disturb a magician's silence.

The sounds which echoed from the room where the only organ in the Tower was housed, a cacophony of disharmony disturbing the silence the magician so treasured. The pen, held between gloved fingers, was all but slammed down onto the table. Somewhere in the tower, a wolf, probably Reibzahn, howled as the clashing notes agitated his sensitive hearing. It took a few moments for the magician himself to calm down, having lit a cigarette, the ashes scattering over the paperwork he had been working on.

"That damn puppetmaster." Isaak growled in annoyance, rising from his chair, hands crushing the cigarette against the crystal ashtray, leaving a dark smear against clear glass. The horrid sounds were ruining his concentration. Cracking his knuckles, he strode from his office, intent on making the player stop.

His strides carried him quite swiftly to where the pipe organ was. There was no mistaking the young man sitting on the stool, short brown hair falling just after the stiff white collar of his uniform. Isaak frowned, watching the young man toy with the old instrument, slender fingers running over the keys and producing what would, in Isaak's terms, qualify as an unholy chorus of screeching. The puppetmaster didn't seem to be aware of the magician standing in the doorway of the room, dark eyes glaring daggers at his unsuspecting back.

"A word in your ear, my dear Puppetmaster. This is an organ keyboard, Dietrich. You don't play it like you would one of your electronic devices." Isaak's voice drifted to Dietrich's ears, and for a moment, the clashing notes stopped, leaving only their fading echoes behind. The puppetmaster looked up from the keyboard his fingers had been on moments ago, meeting Isaak's gaze across the room. "If you can't play it, then don't wake the dead by trying."

Dietrich's lips curled into a smirk, his fingers intentionally pressing down onto the keyboard, drawing out another clash of notes. This time, Isaak thought he recognized the notes, but only barely. He was at the puppetmaster's side in an instant, fingers wrapped tightly around Dietrich's wrist, lifting his hand to stop the young man from touching the grand old organ's keys. "Have you really nothing better to do?" His grip on Dietrich's wrist tightened almost painfully. "Nothing to do, at all, no devious plots, no, nothing?" Fingers found their way to the keyboard, depressing the keys with such force, the resulting chord, a dissonant yet elegant sound, resounded throughout the entire hall.

"I'm afraid I'll have to say I'm bored once more, magician."

Dietrich flinched, the sound had been almost as bad as the chords he had been toying with, but this one... this one sent a chill up his spine. Lips brushed against his ear, and Dietrich nearly jerked away, only to find himself held fast by a pair of arms encircling his waist. "Devil's chord. Banned by the Vatican in the 12th century..."

A smirk tugged at the magician's lips, releasing his grip around the puppetmaster's slender waist. He was slightly surprised to find Dietrich's fingers reaching up, tangling in his hair, absently teasing the skin on his neck. "The devil's chord played by the devil himself... Say, Isaak, I have a request."

"What is it this time, puppetmaster?"

It was Dietrich's turn to smirk. "Play the music for Silent Noise. Play the music you played the night Barcelona was destroyed."

The magician nearly flinched. The memory of his defeat at the hands of the Krusnik returned to him, and it wasn't a pleasant memory. Isaak cast a suspicious glance at the puppetmaster, sitting on the organ bench, with nary a smirk in sight on his pretty face. He wondered if Dietrich was merely goading him, and if he was, it was working. A frown creased Isaak's face. "Why, of all things, that music?"

Fingers stroked Isaak's cheek, trailing down to his neck and lightly tugging at his tie. "Because I want to hear the music which killed millions."

"The death of a million is only a statistic." The words which left his lips were soft, almost a whisper, as fingers glided over ebony and ivory, unconsciously recreating the music to which Barcelona had been destroyed. Dietrich smirked, watching Isaak as the mage lost himself in the music he so loved. His arms wrapped around Isaak's neck, lips at his neck, whispering words to him, teasing him softly. Fingers trailed down his chest, loosening his tie, unbuttoning his shirt. Isaak's eyes opened slightly as fingers came into contact with bare skin. He knew that somehow, Dietrich had maneuvoured him into this, the puppetmaster with his devilish strings.

"I wonder, does the old wound sting?" Fingers dug into scarred skin, nails scratching over where an old wound had been.

Isaak's hand closed over Dietrich's, catching hold of his wrist in a crushing grip. The last echoes of the song started to fade, as Isaak spoke, his voice a low purr. "Trying to push the limit again, Dietrich?"

A chuckle left Dietrich's lips. "You always push away concern."

"Only because its you, and one can never tell if you're being insincere or not." Dietrich suddenly found himself pushed down onto the bench, Isaak pinning him down. "So tell me, are you sincere, puppetmaster?"

"Perhaps." And perhaps it was the wrong answer, too, for in a sudden show of strength, Isaak shoved the puppetmaster off the organ seat, pushing him down the stairs below the organ. A moment later Isaak materialised over Dietrich, straddling his hips. "Perhaps enough to make me hurt you." A gloved finger trailed down Dietrich's cheek. "Would you like that, hmm?"

The puppetmaster chuckled softly, reaching up and stroking Isaak's cheek. "Mmhm, maybe. But first I want you to tell me." His fingers trailed down Isaak's chest. "I'll ask you again, does the old wound still hurt?"

"Somewhat."

"Maybe I could make it better..." His nails dug into Isaak's skin a little more. The magician flinched, the skin there still felt slightly tender even though it had healed. His eyes narrowed to dark slits, grip on Dietrich's wrist tightening just the slightest.

"I can't say that I trust you, Dietrich..."

"You never do, Isaak."

The magician smirked, pinning Dietrich down against the cold, hard, marble floor. "When it's you we're talking about, my dear Marionettenspieler, one can never be too trusting." His lips barely brushed against Dietrich's. Shadows curled around Dietrich's hands, binding them together, pulling his hands together in an uncomfortable restraint.

"And I suppose you must mistrust me enough to bind my hands, then, no?"

It was the magician's turn to smirk, now. Isaak pressed his body against Dietrich's. "I do it for your benefit, liebchen, to deprive you of control, the better to aggravate your anxiety and need, and ultimately increase your pleasure." Isaak's voice was soft and clinical. "And sometimes it is simply convenient for you to be held still."

"You come up with finest excuses." Dietrich crushed his lips against Isaak's, nipping at his lips. Isaak's grip on Dietrich's wrist tightened.

Isaak let out a breath as he pulled away. "Only because it's you."


End file.
